A whistlestop tour of sacred sites - Delhi to Varanasi

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Ever since my last barely blogged trip to India in 2009 I have longed to return to these shores. And after resigning my long term job in August this year what was there to stop me returning? And so in October, after rambling through France, Wales and Scotland, of which more later maybe, I signed up for a two week Sacred Sites of India tour, led by raw chef Niten and Santoshi. The tour would begin and end in Delhi.

One emergency new UK passport and one rushed Indian visa later I set off for Heathrow Airport on a frosty November morning, swathed in shawls. I was due to arrive in India at 3.30 am on November 16th. A taxi had been arranged to pick me up. Another member of the tour group would land at 6.30 and we were to share a room at the Jyoti Mahal, Paharganj. My Air India flight was two hours late departing, meaning my actual landing time was dawn - the cold light. I picked up my luggage, changed money and came out into arrivals, scanning the assorted placards for my name. None of my various names featured. I then exited the airport proper, hoping my chauffeur might be waiting there. He was not. Back inside the airport a kindly man rings the hotel for me. " He's waiting for you outside. He's carrying a placard with the name 'Hazel' on it," relays the gent. He is not. Ah, welcome to India...

Eventually I manage to locate the lovely Birgitta, following which our taxi driver miraculously materialises. " I was waiting for you holding this, " says he, bearing aloft a laminated sign emblazoned with ' Jyoti Mahal welcomes Hazel.' Harumph!

Outside the early morning air is thick with pollution. Off we speed into the streets in a state of becoming. I am soothed by the eventual park beneficently giving off its much needed oxygen, ditto by the sight of neatly uniformed scholars entering the gates of a school which bears a variety of inspiring slogans such as, 'OLD IS GOLD, NEW IS SILVER.' Finally, we enter the higgledy piggledy streets of Paharganj. The driver insists on his baksheesh, as do the porters. All I want to do is lie down and sleep. Birgitta remains a beacon of positivity, all loveliness and equanimity.

We rest for some hours to the strains of an all female puja happening below with devotional singing. In the afternoon we make it up to the rooftop terrace where we make the acquaintance of other members of the tour group. We are a fairly large group of 17, including Sarita from the school of Awakening and my friend Sidika.

We are due to leave for Varanasi on the night train at 9 pm. In the early evening Niten tells us there is a few hours delay. In fact the train departure is delayed and delayed again until eventually we set off for the staion on foot at around 2 am. The train will leave at 3. The station is packed with prone bodies. A mighty scrum lurches forward as the train pulls in. It's akin to a crazy football cup final as we are squeezed, jostled and shoved this way and that. I propel myself towards the door and await the proclamation of my bunk number. Our first class accommodation has become 3rd class AC - what to do? It transpires I don't have a bunk but Niten says, "Take this one here," and I do. All is well, even when the inspector comes during the hours of darkness. I keep my unsleeping eyes shut and act as if. Niten's explanation that I'm sleeping seems to wash...

By now India has taught me to let go of shoulds and timescales and as day rolls on into afternoon I fully surrender to que será. Sometime around 8.30 pm we roll into a train station which is still some distance from Varanasi. We are rapturously received by our hosts who garland us with orange malas. We are driven triumphantly towards the amazing city. As we reach the Ganges the driver slows for us to make our offerings of coins to this queen of rivers. I feel jubilant to be in this place first recommended to me by a hitchhiker I gave a lift to in the UK. At that time I had never heard of Varanasi.

Entering the city itself we pass no less than three wedding parties, riotous explosions of joy all, with their many lightbulbs shining maximum wattage, their music blasting. And we near the souk, descend from our jeeps and in we go the the throng, serpentine alleys in which cows feature heavily. It is rapturous, engaging, vivid. We are staying a stone's throw from the burning ghats. After dinner we step out to listen to live music, part of a festival taking place.

Thursday is spent navigating the streets of Varanasi - marvellous mayhem, essential, entertaining, filthy, glamourous. I am in heaven in this ancient and familiar place, steeped in devotion. Sunrise heralds ritual bathing, prayers, boat trips floating flickering offerings of flowers and flames to Ma Ganga in a collective act of fierce worship - a truly elemental encounter. Sunset is aarti, evening puja, again on the banks of the Ganges, targeted by bombers just a few weeks later ; (.

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Comments

[anandahaze]

Nota Bene
Gentle reader, As I am unable to edit this blog I have decided to publish it as is and will continue and embellish in my next episode. with love, Tara

[anandahaze]

Note: The Festival was Ganga Mahotsav - part of Diwali. The Agori Temple was Mangala Arti.